Luca was shaken.
The battle raged around him—screams, spells, the clash of tal—but to him, it was all just... noise. Distant. Faded. As if he were underwater, drowning beneath the weight of sothing far heavier than any wound.
Selena called his na, frantic. Vincent shouted for him to move. But Luca remained where he was, kneeling amidst the chaos, staring blankly ahead.
Everyone around him exchanged worried glances. What had happened to him?
But inside—within Luca’s mind—a storm far more violent was raging.
I don’t know if he’s right or wrong.
I don’t even know if I have the right to judge him.
The flash of that woman’s face resurfaced in his mind. Just a glimpse—bare feet, a hollow gaze, and a whisper like a dying prayer:
"May the Goddess bless you with a smile."
A smile... even after everything.
His chest tightened painfully. That smile was the sa as hers.
Mirelle’s.
Luca’s thoughts drifted again—back to that mory. That mont. That question she had asked her brother, all those years ago:
"Why do you always help people, brother?"
And Eron’s answer, soft and sincere:
"Because I don’t want anyone else to suffer like I did."
He wasn’t born twisted.
He was kind. So heartbreakingly kind.
Too kind for the world he was given.
And now?
Now he stood cloaked in hatred, clawed by corruption, tearing through everything he once tried to protect.
This... this isn’t who he is, Luca thought, sorrow welling in his chest. If Mirelle’s watching from sowhere—watching from above—then she must be weeping right now.
This pain, this vengeance... it isn’t what she would have wanted.
Luca clenched his fists.
He didn’t have answers. He didn’t know what justice looked like anymore.
But he knew one thing.
Eron... wouldn’t want this.
And so, slowly, shakily—he stood.
Everyone turned toward him, bewildered.
His voice trembled, cracked, soaked in sorrow.
"Would Mirelle be happy seeing you right now... Professor Eron?"
The effect was instant.
Eron froze mid-attack. His monstrous form seed to stumble, as if struck by sothing far more piercing than any blade. His expression twisted into sothing grotesque—confusion, pain, fear.
He stared at Luca, wide-eyed.
"What...?" His voice broke, lower than a whisper. "What did you say?"
Then louder, more frantic— "How do you know that na?!"
He lunged toward Luca in desperation, claws outstretched—not to kill, but to silence.
But Luca stepped aside. Calm. Determined.
Gasps echoed from his teammates. Even the enemies paused, watching the scene unfold in stunned silence.
And then Luca spoke again. This ti, softer. Wistful.
"Why are you so kind and helping everyone, brother?"
Eron staggered, as if the question itself struck his chest like a hamr.
His scream tore through the air.
"STOP!"
His voice was raw. Wounded.
"Stop... stop it! You have no right—none of you have the right—to speak her na!"
He bared his fangs, eyes glowing with anguish.
"You bastards still believe in that fake goddess—!"
With a roar of rage and agony, he charged at Luca again.
Weapons were raised. Vincent stepped forward. Elowen knocked another arrow. Selena’s shield pulsed with magic.
But Luca threw out a hand, stopping them.
"No."
"I’ll fight him."
And before anyone could react, he t Eron head-on.
He was struck.
Hard.
Once. Twice.
Blood sprayed from his lip. His ribs cracked. His breath staggered.
But he didn’t lift his swords.
Not yet.
He kept speaking—words breaking between blows, but never stopping.
"...You helped that orphan boy from the market square... even when the priests ignored him."
Another hit.
"...You gave up your food for a sick elder... and never told anyone it was you."
A blow to the stomach—he coughed blood, fell to one knee.
But he rose again.
"...You saved lives, Eron. You gave hope."
Tears welled in Eron’s eyes—but his fists didn’t stop.
Because part of him was listening.
And another part was screaming to silence it.
Luca took the hits.
But he saw it now.
Eron was fighting not just Luca—
But himself.
And that, Luca knew...Was the real battle.
Eron’s fists pounded like thunder.
But sothing was breaking.
Not bones.
Not skin.
Himself.
Each swing ca slower. Each strike shook more from within than it did from without. His claws trembled. His breath hitched.
His eyes—those haunted, glowing eyes—were filled with tears.
He was fighting two battles.
One against Luca.
And one against himself.
"Stop this," Elowen whispered, arrow still taut in her string, eyes glistening. "He’ll die."
She moved to intervene—but Vincent stopped her with a firm hand.
"Wait."
"But—"
"Look at Eron’s face. He’s listening."
And he was.
Despite the blood, the fury, the rage clawing at his insides—he heard every word.
His fists didn’t stop.
But his soul staggered.
Then, his voice cracked through the storm. Ragged. Drenched in grief.
"You know ...? You know what happened...?"
His blow faltered.
"Tell , then. What did I do wrong?!"
Another strike.
"What did she do wrong?!"
He grabbed Luca by the collar, tears streaking his monstrous face.
"What did she deserve? Huh?! Why?!"
"Why...?" Eron’s voice cracked again. His fists trembled midair. "Why did this happen to ?"
"Why... whyyyyyy..."
He dropped to his knees, roaring into the void.
"WHYYYYYYYYY?!"
Luca gasped, breath shallow. His ribs scread, his limbs ached.
But his eyes—clear, sorrowful—t Eron’s.
"I don’t know," he said, voice barely above the wind. "I don’t have that answer."
Eron’s face contorted.
"But..."
Luca looked at him—no longer as a foe, but as a brother who had lost his way.
"...I can say this much—Mirelle wouldn’t recognize this version of her brother."
That one sentence struck deeper than any weapon ever could.
Eron stumbled back as if slapped. His hands fell limp at his sides. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, tears pooling on his cheeks, dripping down his jaw.
Luca watched him closely.
In that broken figure, he still saw it.
The boy who once gave away his bread to an orphan.
The brother who once sang lullabies by candlelight.
The soul that once prayed for a world he thought would be kind.
There was still good in him.
Still light, buried beneath all the darkness.
But then—
A different voice erged.
From within Eron. Twisted. Hollow. Cold.
It echoed from his throat, but it was not his.
"The world abandoned you, Eron."
"Emotions are chains."
"Your pain has purpose. Your vengeance... is justice."
"Everything is for her. Everything is for Mirelle."
Eron’s body jolted.
His eyes flared red.
He lunged at Luca again, a roar of fury and sorrow bursting from his lungs.
But this ti—
Luca didn’t fall back.
He stood firm.
His blades finally t Eron’s claws, parrying, deflecting—not with fury, but with clarity.
Because he understood now.
Eron wasn’t the enemy.
This power controlling him was.
Luca gritted his teeth, each clash sparking light against shadow. His arms shook under the weight, but his voice was steady.
He had to reach him.
He had to break through.
And so, as they clashed again—blades and claws in a blur—Luca spoke once more.
"Why...?"
His breath ragged.
"Why do you always help everyone, brother?"
A pause.
A shiver.
And then...
Eron froze.
Just for a second.
And through cracked lips, trembling with sothing like mory, sothing like pain, he whispered—
"Because... we are all children of the Goddess."
He looked at his own hands. Bloody. Clawed.
"And we don’t want anyone to suffer like us... do we?"
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